


Home Front

by anneapocalypse



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: F/F, Vault 101
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Vault revolution is over. Amata’s dearest friend is lost to the wastes, and her father is dead at Butch’s hand. As the new Overseer, she struggles to hold it all together. It’s hard enough to know what’s best for the Vault - never mind what’s best for herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Front

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fallout Big Bang. Huge thanks to [antivanonmytongue](http://antivanonmytongue.tumblr.com) my artist collaborator for [her gorgeous illustration](http://antivanonmytongue.tumblr.com/post/47870160042/), [Larissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/larissa) my beta reader, and everyone who cheered me on along the way.

ROBCO INDUSTRIES UNIFIED OPERATING SYSTEM  
COPYRIGHT 2075-2077 ROBCO INDUSTRIES  
-Server 6-

Welcome, Overseer.  
\------------------  
> View Overseer Logs  
> View Security Dossiers  
> View Scouting Reports  
> Vault-Tec Instructions  
> Open Overseer's Tunnel  
\------------------  
Overseer's Log 

My father is dead.

I guess I'm the Overseer now.  
\------------------

 

Amata was never allowed in her father's office. The Overseer's office. Her father, the Overseer's office.

She backs out of the log entry.

 

The first time with a key, and not a bobby pin tugged from her hair or fished from her pocket, was two weeks ago.

Two weeks out of nineteen years. Still, she'd been through most of it already.

Amata runs her hands over the artificial wood surface of the round desk. Her father's desk. The Overseer's desk. Underneath, the steel's cold, and her legs feel cold beneath it.

Will she ever be able to pull together "The Overseer" and "her father?" Make them the same person? They have the same face, the same stern brow and sandy complexion, silver-white hair. The same dry tone, the same terse, restrained amusement, the same lines from frowns and only the occasional laugh.

Through that window, that porthole in the wall, the Overseer (her father) could look out on the Atrium.

It's so quiet in the Atrium. That's because residents are supposed to be working, not loafing. _Hard Work is Happy Work_ reads the sign over the balcony. _Thank You Overseer!_ Amata's chest tightens, remembering her father's closed eyes as she closed him into his cremation box, released him to the end all Vault dwellers meet.

 _Daddy_.

Daddy who lied about the Vault being sealed for 200 years. The scouting expeditions. Jonas's mother. Giant ants. A place called Megaton. And about the doctor.

"I wish you were here," Amata whispers aloud.

She says it not to her father, but to Catherine. And not just because Catherine was better with computers.

Amata eyes the door. This and the door to their—to _her_ apartment stand between her and the rest—she shouldn't think of it like that, like standing between, she's their Overseer and they need her. They think she holes up in here because she's busy, because she's doing her job and being the Overseer, but the truth is every noise that ghosts by in the corridor makes her tense up, every shadow coming around a corner. Every time somebody who isn't (wasn't) one of the rebels passes her in the corridor her throat tightens with fear. It _shouldn't_ , the worst of it is over, she keeps _telling_ herself that, they don't have guns, none of them have their guns anymore—

Trouble is there's not much left of Vault Security. Stevie Mack and his father are in jail for now. The jail's too small for all the Isolationists, even the whole Security contingent. There was no way to lock up all of them, but they took their nightsticks, their guns. Now it's Officer Gomez, and the few others who joined them after the raid.

They didn't lock up Officer Taylor, for example, even though he did fire on Freddie once. Missed him. Maybe on purpose, maybe just bad aim. He wasn't there, the night of the raid. Maybe just because he was too old, maybe his bad knees. Maybe it wasn't what his Agnes would've wanted. But he wasn't there. And he's an old man, and so they let him go free. But they took his gun.

There's a new lock on the Armory, compliments of Stanley. He agreed to help them, reluctantly, after the raid. Wasn't what he wanted, he said. Still thought the Vault ought to stay closed. But couldn't have grown men firing at kids. It wasn't right.

_We aren't kids, though._

Times like that, Amata thought it best not to bring it up, but they weren't kids. You stopped being a kid in Vault 101 at age 16.

 

When they were little they'd crawl around the steel floors, unlatching their playpens to get into trouble, tumbling over red balls bigger than their heads and sitting their teddy bears down for tea.

_Every Teddy Bear who's been good is sure of a treat today..._

_Mr. James Teddy Senior_ , Catherine called her bear, very seriously.

 _Mavis_ , Amata called her own.

Mr. James Teddy Senior and Mavis were great friends. They adventured all over the playpen together. When they grew tired of the playpen, they climbed the walls and escaped together, frolicking across the floor, scaling the toy box, before Daddy came to take Amata and Mavis away.

 

While they played at Catherine's apartment, her father worked in his office. If Amata couldn't find her dad, he was probably in his office. She could knock on the door, but usually he wouldn't answer. Later he'd come out, tell her she needed to get used to him working, and wait until he was finished working. Right, of course. She was used to it. She'd always been used to it. Sometimes as she walked through the Atrium, she'd look up to the round window, looking for her father's face. Most of the time, he was out of view.

 

"You know why he's doin' this," Butch said, flicking his switchblade out and in. Out and in. The clicking set Amata's teeth on edge, but there was nowhere to go from it except out in the corridor. You could hear that clicking in every corner of the clinic.

"Who?"

"Your dad. The Overseer. It's 'cause he's scared of us. 'Cause he can't control us."

"Yeah, he's so scared we're stuck down here sleeping on the floor of the clinic with armed guards keeping us in."

Butch snorted. "That's how you know he's scared, dummy. Wouldn't lock us in if he weren't. 'Cause we're dangerous." There was pride in his voice. Amata sighed.

 

The message is still playing on repeat.

_This is an automated distress message from Vault-Tec Vault 101. Message begins:_

_It feels like you left home a long time ago, but... I know you're still out there. I just hope you're still alive to hear this. Things got worse after you left._

The surface broadcast function was one of those things Amata found when she started poking around the Overseer's terminal, before her father declared martial law. Before he herded the rebels into the infirmary wing and barricaded them in.

_My father's gone mad with power. If you can hear this, please stop looking for your dad and help stop mine. I changed the door password to my name..._

She almost laughs to herself, thinking of it. A password. Who would've thought a password was all that stood between them and the outside? That enormous door, two feet of steel, and all it takes for someone out there to open it is the right word.

Two people out there know what it is.

Neither of them came.

 

"Come with me," Catherine whispered, winding her fingers around Amata's. "Please."

It all happened so fast—seconds, at most. Security banging, hollering on the other side of the vestibule door, they'd have it open any second. Those thick braids Catherine always wore to sleep were askew, a stray curl tugged loose over her temple. Over a bruise coming forward in her brown skin. Amata felt almost dizzy, sick to her stomach, still with the image of Jonas burned into her head, oh god his glasses broken and there was blood on his white coat and Amata felt like she was choking but she _would. not. cry._

"I..." Amata swallowed. Catherine's dark eyes were wide, pleading, lips parted in breathless urgency and there was no time to think all the things Amata would've thought about had it been any other day, no time to say anything but "I can't. I'm sorry, my dad, I-I just can't..."

She doesn't remember whether she hugged Catherine first, or the reverse. Maybe it was both of them flung their arms around each other at once, clung as tight and as hard as they could for the seconds they had. Catherine sobbed once, just once, over her shoulder, but when she pulled back, though her eyes were glassy, there were no tears on her face, and then Vault Security burst through the door and they broke apart, Amata's heart in her throat as she dashed for the access tunnel, looking over her shoulder as Catherine ran through the gear-shaped hole and into the dark passage beyond.

 

Amata silences the playback, swivels her chair away from the screen and rubs her eyes hard. She should probably just turn it off, there's no sense... it's over. The fighting's over. Her father's gone. She's the Overseer now.

Catherine's not coming back.

She logs off the terminal and stands.

 

In the corridors she can feel every set of eyes as they land on her. Doesn't matter who. Isolationists, rebels, neutrals. Strange how quickly they all fell into categories. Like... gangs, almost.

Butch loved it. She could see it in the way his eyes gleamed, the way he flicked that blade in and out, the way he brandished that gun he stole while Amata begged him to knock it off.

Guns scared her.

Butch scared her, to be honest, but the rebels needed him, and he wasn't shy of reminding her about that. About everything _he_ knew, everything _he_ figured out.

She did bring a few things of her own.

 

Tugging a bobby pin out of her hair, she dropped to her knees in front of the door to her father's office (the Overseer's office). With a click the lock tripped, and with a hiss, the metal door slid up.

Getting onto the Overseer's terminal (Daddy's terminal), now that was going to be a little harder.

Amata wasn't the best with computers. Catherine was good. Butch too, much as she hated to admit it. But Catherine was... gone, and Butch, well.

What he'd said, she needed to see it for herself.

The desk was clear, almost strangely so, not even a dirty coffee cup. Amata couldn't even tell what he did at his desk, really, aside from sit there and drink coffee and be the Overseer and look out the little porthole into the Atrium where no one ever really hung out anyway. Maybe they were supposed to, maybe that was the idea of the Atrium, but it was cold. All that gray. The diner was better. They only gathered in the Atrium for Mandatory Vault Social Events. Parties, dances.

She slid open the desk drawer. Not much in there. Some holotapes. Some looked newer, the cases still shiny; some were yellowed and scuffed, probably went back years. Back to the War, maybe. There might've been a password on one of them. She certainly didn't have time to check them all. The Overseer could be back anytime.

Giving up on the desk, she went to the lockers off to the left and swung them open one by one. The first opened easily, revealing nothing but a pack of cigarettes. Strange, since Daddy never smoked. The second was locked, but her bobby pin opened it easily. At first glance it looked empty. Amata reached up to sweep her hand across the top shelf, and her fingers met the edge of a square plastic disk. Another holotape.

She fished it off the shelf and slid it into her Pip-Boy. The momentary delay, the faint click and whisper as it read the tape, and then, a single line of text.

The password is Amata.

Amata let out a half-sigh.

_Really, Daddy?_

Seconds later she was into the terminal.

 

Wally stalks past her in the hall, glaring, fixing his eyes on her as he always does, muttering as they pass, "You're gonna pay for this. You're gonna pay for everything. You belong out there with DeLoria, gettin' your ass eaten alive by mutants. Hell, he's probably already dead. We oughta throw you all out. Every last one o' you traitors."

"Shut up, Wally."

_Shut up._

Because the last thing she wants to think about is one more person dead.

Amata doesn't want that. Not even for Butch.

Wally's an idiot. Throwing the rebels out into the wastes won't solve their problems any more than keeping the Vault closed will. Even Wally's dad knows that. If he could've thrown every single rebel out into the wastes to die and still kept the Vault going, he would have. Without hesitation.

There was a time she didn't believe that, thought they meant well, thought they just wanted to protect their home and their families, even if she didn't agree with them.

That was before the raid, though.

Amata slides into the diner. It's eerily quiet. Jukebox is still broken from when Butch and Freddie tore the place up during the rebellion. What good they thought that would do their cause, Amata can't imagine. Stanley's alone in a booth with a cup of coffee, face to the wall. Couple of young teens she doesn't know well, Jackie and... Pete?... huddle in a corner booth, talking in low voices. They go silent when she walks in.

People don't hang out like they used to. Keep to their rooms. The kitchen's closed at this hour, but there's usually a pot of coffee on for the night staff. Amata pours herself a cup, and feeds a ration coupon into the Eat-O-Matic for a snack.

 

When they were thirteen things changed. The boys got bigger and meaner. Amata sat behind Catherine in class and passed her notes, tiny strips of paper torn from the corner of a worksheet, or when all else failed, from a blank page at the back of her home economics textbook. Notes scribbled tiny tiny tiny on the narrow strip, paper rationed as tight as food. And they had a lot of notes to pass. Amata would roll the strip of paper into a tiny scroll and when Mr. Brotch turned around to face the board, she'd wedge it into the gap where the back of Catherine's chair attached to the metal bars. And Catherine would reach back and pluck it out and unroll it under her desk. The desks were so small, and their class so few, Mr. Brotch had to have noticed, but he never scolded Catherine for note-passing, probably because she got the best grades in the class.

The boys hated that too. _Teacher's pet, teacher's pet_ , Butch would sneer at Catherine as she passed him on her way out. And Catherine would shrink small and walk close to the wall and keep her eyes away and Amata hated it. Wanted to punch him, only she knew she couldn't win a fight with Butch. He'd turn on her, too, smirking as she passed. _Whassamatter Amata, gonna go cry to Daddy? Go cry to your Daddy, Amata. Daddy's girl, Daddy's girl..._

It was enough to make a girl swallow her tears down hard. Never cry in front of anybody ever again.

(Except Catherine.)

 

There was a day at lunch when Butch threw a french fry at Catherine, soggy and half-soaked in ketchup. It landed right in her hair, too, left of the center where Catherine had parted it into two fluffy pigtails.

Catherine had wonderful hair, dark and full of tight curls. When the boys or Susie tried to touch it, she'd shrink away, but when it was just the two of them, they'd play with each other's hair for hours, sitting on Catherine's bed, staying up too late talking while Catherine's dad worked late nights at the clinic. Amata loved the feeling of Catherine brushing through her own straight hair with gentle, firm strokes, but she loved just as much combing through Catherine's thick curls with a wide-tooth comb. How soft Catherine's hair felt under her fingers, how good her hair smelled. The gentle touch of Catherine's fingers on her own scalp, parting and dividing her hair before a dance, twisting it up strand by strand into little circles pinned against her head to set.

It was fun getting dressed for dances together. Not for the boys; who was worth dancing with in the Vault? Maybe Paul. Paul wasn't so bad if you got him alone, away from Butch and Wally, and he wouldn't smirk or try to step on your feet they way they did. But it was better just to stay together. They danced the slow dances together, ignoring the sneering eyes of the Snakes on the sidelines. They'd wind their arms around each other, and Catherine would giggle over Amata's shoulder, and somehow the boys were easier to ignore.

Butch and Wally snorted themselves stupid with laughter about the French fry as Catherine fled in tears, and Amata would have gladly thrown her Nuka in both of their faces, but instead she ran after Catherine.

Catherine was already drying her eyes as Amata caught up with her at the door to her apartment, wiping her face with a sniffle or two on the sleeve of her Vault suit. She nodded to Amata without a word and they went inside.

If they went to the bathrooms, they might run into Susie, and though the doctor might notice the extra water usage, he wouldn't say anything, so they collected Catherine's hair supplies and snuck up to the clinic instead.

The doctor wasn't there. Amata can't remember now why he wasn't there, but he was out, and so they slipped in together and Amata pulled a stool up to the sink for Catherine to sit on. She ran the faucet until it was perfectly warm, and Catherine undid the ties from her hair and dipped her head over the sink.

Amata squeezed some shampoo into her palm without a word and lathered it up in her hands. Catherine was quiet too but sighed a little as Amata scrubbed the suds through her hair, rubbing her scalp with her fingertips. Amata could still feel anger burning in her throat, teeth wanting to clench. She wanted to scream and throw things whenever she thought of Butch. But the warm water and Catherine's thick hair felt comforting in her hands, smoothing the creme rinse through her curls, and afterward Catherine wrapped her hair up in a towel and Amata wrapped her arms around Catherine, and they stayed there for a while in the quiet clinic, and Mr. Brotch never told their fathers that they didn't come back to class that afternoon.

 

She's got every intention of heading right back to her apartment with her coffee and her snack cakes, but when she hears Stanley murmur a low greeting, she turns.

"Oh, hi Mrs. Palmer."

"Amata dear. You know you can call me Lucy."

"I know." Amata's eyes drop self-consciously. "It's just. Force of habit."

A smile crosses the older woman's creased face as she steps up to the counter. There's a warmth to her smile that has a way of setting Amata a little more at ease, no matter what else is going on. "I ran out of tea in my apartment and thought I'd make my way down here for a nice cup. Shall we sit together?"

"Sure." Amata knows Mrs. Palmer doesn't sleep very well. She joined them in the clinic wing during the rebellion, mattresses on the floor and all, which couldn't have been good for her arthritis, but she did it. Sometimes, late at night, Amata would hear her humming a pre-war tune, very softly, and the sound of it would calm her enough to sleep.

The teens in the corner mutter to each other and get up to leave as Mrs. Palmer fixes her drink—a coupon for the box of tea, another for the water ration—and eases herself carefully into a booth. Amata slides into the seat across from her. Mrs. Palmer raises the mug to her lips to blow on the surface. "How are you doing?"

"I don't—I don't know." Amata sighs, and brushes a stray piece of hair out of her eyes. She tugs a few pins out of her hair, and her messy bun comes loose and tumbles over her shoulders. Her hair's getting long. Should've had Butch give her a trim, before—well. Too late for that now. "Glad things are finally calming down, I guess."

Mrs. Palmer nods, eyeing her carefully. There's more to say, but Stanley's still in the corner, sipping his coffee slowly. Amata adds, "How are you doing?"

"I'm all right, dear." There's more to say there, too, Amata's sure of it.

For few minutes they sit in silence, Amata drinking her coffee and Mrs. Palmer drinking her tea, until at least Stanley gets up from his booth, sets his coffee cup on the counter (he'll be back to refill it later in the night, after he's made his rounds) and leaves the diner.

Amata looks up to find Mrs. Palmer's dark brown eyes meeting hers as if on a cue. She almost expects a "How are you really doing?" but Mrs. Palmer doesn't ask, just regards her thoughtfully until Amata can't help but speak.

"I—I just don't know," she hears herself saying, not even sure what she means, what she's answering, what it is she doesn't know.

Mrs. Palmer—Lucy—nods very slowly, wrapping both hands around her mug as if to warm them.

"I don't really know _how_ to be Overseer." Amata's throat constricts a little, and she feels the urge to look over her shoulder, as if someone might be listening. "I didn't really... want this."

"I know that's true," Lucy says. Her voice is low, and Amata wonders if she feels the same. It's like Mr. Mack and his cronies might charge around the corner in triumph, demanding she step down immediately. Silly, really. Mr. Mack can't hurt her. He can't do anything to them more. And yet.

"I just wanted my dad to listen to us. I just—" Amata hears her voice waver, not break, but bend a little. She rubs her scalp with her fingertips before gathering her hair back together at the back of her head. "I just wanted him to listen to _me_." Oh god no, not tears. She's usually better.

But there's something about Mrs. Palmer. Lucy. No, it's not the fact that she's old—older—elderly— Amata's uncomfortable with any of the words really, was always taught that was rude. An elder, that's better. Not because she's her elder. Amata wonders what Lucy was like when she was young. Probably not much different. How much do people really change, when they get older? Old? Elderly? Does the person you were when you were a kid just get buried under the years? Still the same on the inside, but with more layers? Or is the other way around—do the layers get peeled back as you get older, reveal who you really were all along?

Amata can't imagine it. Can't imagine being twenty-one, even. This year's been such a year it feels bigger than a year, heavier. Like something she'll have to carry for a long time.

Lucy Palmer's carrying a lot of years. How does she do it? How _now_ , with everything that's happened? There are lines in her kind brown face, her hair's altogether white, her hands are knobby at the knuckles like she's been holding onto something very tightly for a very long time. But when she speaks, her voice is—not light, but strong.

There was a way she used to talk, as though she were drifting off, almost as though she were describing something from a dream. _Oh goodness, listen to me ramble!_ she'd say, and laugh, the laugh as light and wispy as her white hair. Since the rebellion she doesn't talk like that anymore. There's a sturdiness to her voice, a certainty. She speaks as though she _knows_ what she's saying is the truth. And lately Amata gets the feeling she just wasn't listening before, that it was there underneath all along.

"This isn't fair to you, child." Lucy's voice has taken on a heaviness, and Amata feels heavy herself, and a little cold, and guilty in a way she can't explain.

"I'm not... I shouldn't complain." Amata swallows. "It's just..."

"Hogwash," Lucy says firmly. "Don't get in the habit of denying your feelings, Amata."

"But everyone's depending on me! I can't let them down. And if the isolationists see that I—" Amata's voice breaks again, "—that I'm scared, who knows what they'll do?"

Lucy's eyes close for a moment, and she shakes her head slowly.

"You're too young for this burden. And that's no fault of yours, you're just young." She's quiet for a moment. "You, and all your friends, have suffered for the sins of your fathers. And mothers. I include myself."

"Not you! You helped us. We'd never have held it together without you."

"I was a coward," Lucy says, the last word falling so harshly it's frightening. "I could've spoken the truth years ago. Could've resisted your father when he laid down the decree of silence. I kept quiet because I was afraid—for myself, for my family." She shakes her head again, and somehow the lines in her face look deeper and more pained. "Anne and I talked it over, time and again, and we always came back to that—we had to protect our family, had to protect Jonas. Anne never told him, you know. He had to learn the truth from the good doctor—about the outside, about the expedition his own mother led." Lucy's eyes are on the opposite wall, lost in the memory. "I do regret that so... he came to us, asking why we had lied. Anne was furious, at first. Marched up to the clinic and gave the doctor a piece of her mind." She laughs ruefully. "Jonas didn't stay angry, of course. But if I could change one thing, only one, it would be that. He should have heard the truth from his mother and I. And now they're both gone, and God help me, it might not have been so, if only I had tried..."

Amata sits silent, listening. She feels frozen, locked into stillness by Lucy's confession. By what Lucy's been carrying, all these years. And now.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers finally, not knowing what else to say.

"I know," Lucy says, her voice softening. "Thank you. I'm sorry for your loss too, my dear. I never wanted it to come to this. I may have opposed the Overseer's policies, but he was only a man. And he was your father."

"I..." Amata's throat is tight _._ "I _miss him_ so much. I know he did awful things and I know he was wrong but I miss him, I just wish he'd walk into my room and ask me if I've eaten dinner, or..." She won't cry. She _won't_. "God, I just wish things could be normal again sometimes, and I _started_ this, I started this rebellion so it's kind of my fault that he died and..."

"It's _no such thing_ ," says Lucy sharply. "You didn't start this. The doctor was the spark that set it off, but you know now how long this was in coming. Don't you dare blame yourself. Not for the rebellion, not for your father's lies, not for the guards turning to violence, not for the DeLoria boy and his rashness. Amata, dear. You have enough on your shoulders without taking on the burdens of others' mistakes. I won't see you take that on yourself." Her brow furrows sternly, but her jaw softens into a faint smile. "Is that understood, Miss Overseer?"

Amata laughs in spite of herself. "Yes, Mrs. Palmer."

Lucy's smile broadens little. "That's more like it."

 

Amata slips quietly into the security office, closing the door behind her. Officer Armstrong nods to her. "How's it going tonight, Miss Overseer?"

"It's going... fine. Is Mr. Mack awake?"

"Think he is."

"I'd... like to talk to him. If it's okay."

"You're the boss." Officer Armstrong—Steve, she should call him Steve—gestures to the door on his left. Behind him, the Vault's jail.

 

Of course it wasn't practical to lock up every single isolationist. There were a number of people who came down on that side but as long as they didn't get violent, they were allowed to walk free.

After the raid, Freddie's mom and dad rallied the moderates, especially the parents and the few security guards who didn't square with Wally's dad. Steve Armstrong was one of those guards. Wasn't right, he said, shooting at kids.

_We're not kids, though._

 

Wally's dad's still awake, sitting on his cot paging through a comic book and looking bored. His eyes narrow as Amata approaches the cell. "What're _you_ doing here?"

Amata stops about two feet from the bars. Something about Mr. Mack, his voice, his posture, it all says, _Keep away._ Even locked up, he's scary. "Just wanted to see how you were."

"How generous of you. What a philanthropist you are. You know that word? Probably not. Wasting your time here. Go campaign to those wet blankets upstairs."

Amata takes a deep breath. "I know you hate me—"

Mr. Mack sneers. "You're so full of it. Hate you. Jesus. You're nobody. You're nothing here, that's what you don't get. You and your little friends, you all think you're just playing a game."

"Nobody thinks it's a game," Amata says tightly. "Not after what happened that night. Was it a game to you, what happened to Freddie?"

"Cry me a fuckin' river about Freddie. What about Paulie, huh? Why don't you go ask Officer Hannon about his son? If he thinks that was a fuckin' game?"

A game. Butch never left Paul's side, after they brought him to the Clinic, all bitten up by roaches, and no doctor to help him. Wally wasn't anywhere to be found, while Paul's fever spiked and the infection took hold.

Chrissy still wakes up screaming for her mom and her sister. Since the rebellion, her dad still won't speak to her.

Mr. Mack's still talking. "Opening the Vault, letting those vermin in? You're no better than that. A radroach. Less than a radroach. Vermin can't help what they are. You chose this. Don't cry to me over Freddie. This is your fault. You and that doctor and his kid. Cry me a river. Ain't nobody got time for your shit, girl. And soon you're gonna learn. You sure as fuck are gonna learn."

"Yeah." Amata turns for the door. "Guess I will."

 

"Done already?"

"Yeah," Amata says shortly.

"Say, do you mind sitting here for a moment while I go grab a coffee? I wouldn't ask, but..."

But security's short-staffed, no one to switch for breaks. "Yeah—yeah, of course, Officer Armstrong." Amata takes his seat at the desk.

For something to look at she skims through the security files on the computer. Nothing new of course, it's all uploaded to the Vault database and appears on her father's—on the Overseer's terminal as well.

Except one file?

Amata opens the unfamiliar log.

CONFIDENTIAL!  
TOP-LEVEL SECURITY ONLY!  
From: Chief Officer  
Subject: Raid on Rebels

Oh.

Amata swallows as she reads. Of course the tone is familiar, but to see it in writing...

We can no longer afford to be merciful to this scum. A raid into their compound

Compound. They had the clinic, a classroom, and a hallway. _Compound._

We may lose a kid or two

Kids, they were kids.

Kids, rebels, scum, kids.

Amata keeps reading.

You are not to inform the Overseer 

What?

You are not to inform the Overseer and some of our softer security guards about this plan, as they will only object and ensure our defeat. Once the deal's done, they'll see it was worth the price.

This'll show those scum what happens when you step out of line in our Vault.

But that—

You are not to inform the Overseer

Dad didn't order it, he didn't—

You are not to inform the Overseer

_You didn't have to kill him._

Amata feels sick, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to stop shaking.

It wasn't her dad.

He didn't know.

 

"You didn't have to kill him!"

"They shot Freddie!" Butch shoved his pistol in his belt and glared out from under his sharply-pointed flop. "Just 'cause he's your daddy, I'm sick of takin' this shit. Nobody fuckin' shoots a Tunnel Snake. Nobody fuckin' shoots my _brother_ and and if they do they got me to deal with. So I dealt with it. You don't like it, too bad. We did it your way long enough."

_"He was my father."_

"Freddie's my brother."

"Freddie's alive."

"No thanks to your old man."

Amata could feel rage bitter in the back of her throat, could feel her voice rising. "Freddie's your _brother_ now? No more _Freddie the Freak_? Like all those names you used to call me, until you _needed_ me? You don't care about _anyone_ but yourself, Butch, and the only difference between me and Freddie is that I _know_ you're not my friend. You never were, and you never will be. Get out of this vault. Get out and don't ever come back."

Butch snorted. "Like I'd stick around this hole."

"Good. Go."

 

She hopes Steve doesn't notice anything off about her when he returns with his coffee, hopes she doesn't look like she's seen a ghost as she makes her way back to her apartment with the message downloaded to her Pip-Boy. She needs to keep it, needs to be able to read it again. Feels as though she could wake up tomorrow morning and find it gone, vanished into the ether, leaving her to wonder if she dreamed what she read.

She uploads it to the Overseer's Terminal for safekeeping, then opens the Surface Broadcast.

_"This is an automated distress call from Vault—"_

Amata terminates the broadcast.

She selects Record New. Takes a deep breath to steady her voice.

"This is Overseer Amata Almodovar of Vault 101. We are now open for trade..."

 

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Welcome, Overseer.  
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> View Overseer Logs  
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Overseer's Log 

Got our first trader today. Not sure I trust her.  
\------------------

 

To be fair, there isn't much trust going on in the Vault in general.

She shows up first the thing the next morning. Sure did get here quick. Officer Gomez, Chief of Security since the rebellion ended, is on duty at the entrance, in anticipation of visitors. Amata has no idea what to expect, whether they'll get a rush of traders, or a few, or none. If they had people to spare she'd have sent a team to that place in the logs—Megaton—but things are still so tense, Amata's scared to upset the delicate balance. Scared to leave an opening for the isolationists to try something.

She's at her terminal going over ration spreadsheets and trying to make sense of all the numbers when Officer Gomez calls up on the intercom. "Amata, we've got a visitor... Do you want to come up and meet her?"

 

A young woman, maybe Amata's age or a little older though it's hard to tell, with straight black hair that falls to her shoulders, and some kind of armor, bare arms but chest and shoulders covered in olive green plating. She has a knapsack slung over her back. Officer Gomez nods to Amata as she steps into the vestibule. "I told her if she wants to enter, she'll have to turn over her weapons."

"Oh—yeah. Yes." Weapons. Amata hadn't even thought about weapons.

The woman crosses her arms. "This really necessary?"

"Yes," Amata says.

"You have to understand," Officer Gomez says, his tone conciliatory. "Our Vault hasn't been open for twenty years. We have to be careful. You don't want to disarm, you're free to go."

There's a long pause.

"Okay." The woman unholsters her gun—something Amata hasn't seen before, she doesn't know much about guns—and hands it to Officer Gomez. She raises her eyebrows at Amata. "Little young for an Overseer, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Amata says flatly. "What kind of trader are you? Doesn't look like you brought much."

The girl snorts. "I don't have a pack brahmin, if that's what you mean. But I know how to get things. Cheap too."

Amata nods. "What kind of things?"

The young woman smirks and nods to the door behind Amata. "You gonna let me in or not?"

"Oh—yeah. Come on in."

She grins. "You can call me Sydney."

 

Everyone's curious about Sydney. Some people avoid her, or stare from a distance. Others introduce themselves, ask her questions, want to touch her armor, want to know what it's like out there, want to know lots of things. Sydney's a good sport about it, Amata thinks. If she had that many people crowding around her at once, she'd probably just collapse. Crumple right into a pile on the floor and cover her face.

 

"Haven't been inside a lot of Vaults," Sydney says casually as they stroll down the corridor. "Not much left to most of 'em. Just rads and critters and some odd junk here and there."

"Are there are a lot of Vaults around here?" It's a strange feeling, thinking about other Vaults. "Are they all... deserted?"

"Most of 'em, yeah. Opened years ago for whatever reasons. This is the only one in the Capital Wasteland that was still sealed, far's I know. And now you're not."

"Capital Wasteland?"

"Yeah, the area around DC."

"That's... the city."

Sydney laughs. "Yeah, that's the city. You really don't know much about the outside, do you?"

"I know some things," Amata says, a little defensively. "I know about Megaton. And giant ants."

"Everybody knows about Megaton," Sydney says breezily. "You're practically on their doorstep. Didn't Megaton get started by people trying to get in here?"

"Oh—did it?"

"That's what they say. Decent town, anyway. Dropped more than a few caps at Moriarty's on my way through. You probably don't know about caps, do you?"

"Caps..."

"Bottlecaps. 'S what most people use for currency out there."

It takes Amata a minute or two to process the fact that her Vault has spent 200 years incinerating something they could've taken outside and used as money. She halts her brain from trying to estimate how many Nuka caps they've thrown away over the years, and instead gestures as they round the corner. "So, this is the diner? Here's a couple of ration coupons—you can get some coffee and a snack, if you want. It's going to take me a few hours to get a supply list together for you. You don't mind waiting, do you?"

"Not at all," Sydney says enthusiastically. "You go do what you gotta do. Just lemme know when you're ready."

It makes her a little nervous, leaving Sydney alone. But Security's been notified to keep an eye on her, and without a weapon there's not much she can do, right?

 

Amata's already begun a supply list on her terminal. There's a lot more to do, going through the Vault's inventory and figuring out what's needed and what they can trade for it, but for now, they can at least stock up a few necessities. She'll have to figure out what they can spare to trade in exchange. God damn the bottlecaps. How did none of their scouts think to mention that in their reports? Amata makes a mental note to put out an announcement to all Vault residents to save their caps... or no, to deposit them in some kind of collection for the general Vault's use, if people are saving caps for themselves it'll encourage them to deplete the Vault's Nuka-Cola supply...

 

And then when Amata goes looking for her, she's nowhere to be found.

"Have you seen Sydney?" she asks. "The outsider?"

"She just came through here a while ago," says Stanley, shrugging, wrench in hand.

"We were talking with her earlier in the diner," Chrissy says. Susie nods.

"I thought I just saw her in the Atrium," says Mrs. Gomez, thin nervous fingers toying with her hair.

"Who cares?" mutters Butch's mom, shoving a ration coupon across the counter for a bottle of vodka.

"I haven't seen her," says Officer Gomez. "Haven't seen anybody in a while."

Amata's stomach knots up. There aren't many places she could get to... the Reactor level's guarded... Security may be stretched thin but she's made sure to keep the important places covered.

...Except for the Overseer's Office.

Amata turns on her heel and takes off for her apartment.

 

There's no sign of entry when the apartment door slides open, but Amata knows from experience how easily Vault locks can be picked, and enters cautiously, wishing she had her father's pistol at her side. Oh god. Did she leave it in the office? What if—

But she's not in the office. Not yet, anyway. Amata almost jumps when she spots her, over in the alcove to the right, studying a console. She's already turning at the sound of the door.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh—just lookin' around," Sydney says nonchalantly, as if the fact of her getting behind a locked door has escaped Amata's attention.

Amata narrows her eyes. "You shouldn't be in here."

Sydney shrugs. "Sorry. I didn't touch anything."

"What do you really want?"

"I'm just here to do business."

"Right."

"Listen, kid—"

"And stop calling me that. I'm the Overseer of this Vault. You can at least call me by my name."

"Sorry. Didn't mean to be rude." Sydney stuffs her hands in her pockets. "I _am_ a trader. I'm... a specialist. I find artifacts. Valuable stuff from before the war. Declaration of Independence, you read about that in your history books down here? Well, I found it. Sold it to a guy in Rivet City. Had help from a vault ki—er, vaultie. Might've even been from here, come to think of it."

Amata's breath catches in her throat.

"Wait—a vault kid? From 101?"

"Don't know the number. She wasn't wearing a suit. Just mentioned she used to live in a vault."

"Was her name Catherine?" _Please please please—_

"Yeah." Sydney raises an eyebrow. "What? She was from here? Friend of yours?"

Amata swallows. "Yeah, friend... she's from here. Did you talk to her? Is she okay?"

"It was a while ago, but yeah, I mean, she was fine when I saw her. Met her at the National Archive, hunting down the Declaration. Decided we'd work together. Nice kid. Little gun-shy, though." Sydney's eyeing Amata more closely now. "Jesus, you look like you've seen a ghost. You okay?"

"Do you know where she is now?" Amata asks.

"Nah, sorry. She was hanging around Rivet City, but I don't think she lived there. Not sure where she did live. Why, you planning on looking for her?"

Amata lets her breath out slowly. "I can't. I'm the Overseer."

"Right." Sydney sounds skeptical.

"I have to stay here."

"Yeah, you said that. How'd you end up Overseer, anyway?"

Amata bites her lip. Not sure how much she should really tell this woman. But Sydney knows things. Met Catherine. Might have more clues she's holding back. And maybe...

"Hey, you don't have to say if you don't want to." Sydney shrugs. "Just curious, you seem a little young, is all. And a little green." She draws a pistol—Amata's pistol, _shit_ —out of her side holster and lays it on the console in front of her. "Relax, it ain't even loaded. You even know how to shoot?"

Amata stiffens. "Sort of."

Sydney raises her eyebrows. "You want a lesson? I can show you the ropes. As a show of good faith. You could stand to know how to shoot." She smirks. "You are the Overseer, after all."

 

There's a makeshift shooting range down on the reactor level. Catherine's dad set it up years ago, when they were ten, and Catherine got a BB gun for her birthday. Catherine liked it, liked the satisfying _pop_ and the _ting_ when it hit the metal swing target. She'd squint just a little as she lined up a shit, and purse her lips. Amata liked to watch her, even if the gun made her nervous, and she didn't like handling it so much.

Her hands go cold, now, as she loads the pistol.

The raid made it all so much worse.

 

They were in the infirmary that night. They were playing cards. Playing poker and—and doing nothing, basically. Nothing at all. Just sitting around. Butch was cleaning under his fingernails with his switchblade. Freddie was combing his hair. Susie was winning, Chrissy was talking about something... some movie. That was all.

And then they heard the thudding of footsteps, a whole group of them coming up the stairs. And the yelling. "Everybody out of there, right now! All of you front and center, hands where we can see 'em!" Frightened eyes around the circle—"The hell are they doin'?" Butch snarled—Amata got to her feet—"What's going on?" said Susie, eyes narrowed—"Out here! All of you! Right now!"—all of them scrambling for the office at the back of the Infirmary—oh god, Mrs. Palmer was in the classroom around the corner, oh no—everyone crowding back into the small space, crouching for cover—except Butch with his stolen pistol drawn, Freddie with his switchblade—"Butch, _no—"—_ shots in the corridor, shouts, and over the desk Amata saw Freddie fall, and Chrissy screamed—

 

Sydney comes up behind Amata, adjusting her grip. "So how'd you end up runnin' this joint?"

Amata takes a deep break and lets it out slowly. Been a long time since she was this close to... well, anyone. Sydney's taken off the top plating of her armor, leaving her in just an olive-drab t-shirt, and she's warm at Amata's back. "My father was the Overseer before me."

"What, it's like a monarchy or something?"

"Not exactly. It's... complicated."

Sydney lets out a short laugh. "Fathers are like that."

Amata lets off a shot, not even grazing the largest target. "They are, aren't they."

There's a longer pause before Sydney answers, "Yeah." Her hands land on Amata's hips, straightening her stance. "Try to squeeze the trigger, not yank it. And make sure you don't lock your elbows."

Amata tries a few more shots. One of them even grazes the target. "So what about your father?"

"Why?"

"You said fathers are complicated." Amata finally nails a target, enough to get a gratifying _ting_ out of it, and unloads the empty magazine. "Why's yours?"

"My dad... taught me to shoot." Sydney shrugs. "That's not why, but he taught me. Taught me how to maintain weapons. Taught me a lot of things. I thought he was the best, you know? Then one day he just up and disappeared. Left one day on a job and never came back."

"I'm sorry."

"That's not even the end of it. Hated him for years, right? Thought he'd abandoned me. Then your friend, Catherine—she gives me this tape she found crawlin' around DC. And would you believe it, it's my dad. Deal went bad on him. Got shot. Recorded this damn holotape with his last words to me... how he thought I'd ever get it, I don't know. And yet I did." Sydney's quiet for a moment. "'S'weird to stop hating somebody. I'm still kinda trying to adjust to it, you know?"

"Yeah," Amata says slowly. "Yeah, I do."

Sydney raises an eyebrow.

"We sorta had a rebellion. We wanted to open the Vault, Dad and other people didn't... well, like I said. It's complicated. But Security raided the rebels, fired on us... one of us got shot. And this other kid, Butch, he... killed my father. He thought my dad ordered the raid. Well, we all did."

"But he didn't?" Sydney sounds curious.

"Nope. Didn't even know about it."

"Wow. Shit sucks. I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"You want to sit down and have a beer or something?"

"I don't drink. I'm—"

"Right, the Overseer. A Nuka, then."

 

There are people in the diner, and Amata doesn't feel like being around people, so much. She and Sydney carry their ice-cold bottles back down to the Reactor Level, and sit on the storage crates as they drink.

"Why do you stay here?" Sydney asks bluntly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what I say. I mean why do you stay here? You can leave. Door's wide open—well, not literally. But shit, kid, you can walk out of here anytime. Why stay?"

Amata drops her eyes to the steel floor, curling her fingers around the edge of the crate.

"They need me here."

"Bullshit." Sydney runs a hand through her sleek hair. It's hard for Amata not to stare at her, the angles of her armor, and the contours of her biceps firm under rolled sleeves, and the strong spread of her palm and her sturdy fingers. It's not so much the woman herself—though she's gorgeous, for sure—but the thought of where she's _been_. Out there. Out in the wasteland. Where Catherine is.

"Bullshit," Sydney says again, startling Amata. "They'll get on without you. Somebody else can run this pit. You want her back—you _do_ want her back, don't you?—go find her. If that isn't what you want, fine. Go find whatever it is you do want. Caps. Booze. Girls." Sydney laughs, her face softening for a moment before she adds. "But you're not gonna look me in the eye and tell me you want this." She shakes her head slightly, her expression turning serious again as she gives Amata a sidelong glance. "You don't."

_I don't want this._

Amata swallows.

_I don't want to be the Overseer._

"No one's ever asked me what I want," Amata says quietly.

"And I got news for you," Sydney says drily. "No one's gonna."

Amata's stomach ties itself in knots again. Sydney nudges her knee with her own.

"That's why you gotta go get it for yourself." Her brown eyes meet Amata's, serious, and oddly gentle. "I'm not gonna tell you what you want. But you oughta be asking yourself."

Amata swallows again.

Nods.

 

She barely sleeps that night.

Turns over and over in her bed, the bedroom she grew up in, while her father's bedroom lies empty, the full size bed untouched since his death.

 

And in the morning she gets up and packs herself a bag.

 

ROBCO INDUSTRIES UNIFIED OPERATING SYSTEM  
COPYRIGHT 2075-2077 ROBCO INDUSTRIES  
-Server 6-

Welcome, Overseer.  
\------------------  
> View Overseer Logs  
> View Security Dossiers  
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> Vault-Tec Instructions  
> Open Overseer's Tunnel  
\------------------  
Overseer's Log 

I, Amata Almodovar, hereby step down as Overseer of Vault 101 and instate Herman Gomez as Overseer in my place.  
\------------------

Cans of Cram, some Blamco! Mac-and-Cheese, Dandy Boy Apples, a few bottles of water. How much should she take? Does it matter? She _can_ always come back to the Vault if—

A spare Vault suit. Underwear. Dad's pistol.

 

She seriously considers just leaving a note for Officer Gomez, but it occurs to her that that's the way Catherine's dad left, with a note, in the dead of night, with no warning.

She should tell everyone, make an announcement, but she can't. Not with the isolationists still eyeing her at every turn. Not with Wally. And something, some feeling in the pit of Amata's stomach tells her if she leaves, she isn't coming back. Because if she goes out there, and she fails...

If she doesn't find Catherine...

 

"I want you to take over as Overseer."

Officer Gomez looks baffled.

"Amata..."

"I just." Amata feels choked. "I can't. I have to leave. I need to go look for Catherine. If there's a chance she's alive... I have to find her. You'll be better at this than me. I—"

Officer Gomez nods, understanding registering on his face. "You're sure you want to go alone?"

"Sydney's going to take me as far as Megaton. That's the—"

"I know." He rubs his chin. "If it's what you want, Amata."

"It is." _More than anything._ "I'm sorry I let you all down. I—"

"Amata. You're not letting us down. You made this happen. If it weren't for you, we wouldn't be where we are. I wasn't on board with it at first, but... I can see it now. And so can others. There's a future for our Vault. And that's because of you." Officer Gomez regards her seriously with his dark eyes, and rests a hand on her shoulder. "I thank you. We all thank you. Go do what you need to do. Go find Catherine."

 

After all this, it should be harder. It is and it isn't. Blinding daylight, a minute to half-cover her eyes while they adjust. Wide open that makes her feel unsteady, like she could fall right off the face of the earth. A reassuring hand on her shoulder.

A broken asphalt road, a hand-painted sign, an arrow to the town called Megaton. A robot, some kind she's never seen, stationed at the entrance to the town. The town wrapped in metal walls, doors that screech open on rusty gears.

"This is as far as I go," Sydney says. "Gotta get back to Rivet City. I'd hang out here a little while to get your bearings. Decent little town, and there's a common house where you can sleep."

 

Amata walks in.

"Well, hot damn," says the bearded sheriff in his broad-brimmed hat. "Another vault kid. Are they just shipping you out daily now?"

"Catherine," Amata blurts, "Catherine Townsend, she came from the Vault a few months ago, did she come through here? Do you know where she is?"

_Please don't say she's dead, please-_

"Take those steps up to your left, head around the corner and you'll find her place."

Amata's breath catches in her throat. "She's here?"

The sheriff nods. "Warnin' you though... she ain't been seein' anybody for a long time. You can knock. Don't know if she'll let you in."

"Thank you," Amata says, and takes off up the steps at a run.

 

The metal door just around the corner is dented but solid. Narrow and rectangular and on side-hinges, like the doors in pre-war holos. And locked. Amata knocks.

There's no answer.

Amata knocks again. "Catherine? Are you in there? It's Amata."

She waits another minute, then knocks again.

"Catherine?"

There's a noise from inside, a creak of metal, and then footsteps, and then the door swings open.

 

She's thinner than Amata remembers, her dark curls are pulled back in a careless knot, her lips are chapped, there are heavy circles under her eyes, and an unfamiliar scar at her left temple.

 _"Amata?_ " Catherine whispers, eyes wide with disbelief.

Then she's in Amata's arms.

 

It takes a while for Catherine to stop crying.

It's not what Amata expected... well, she's not sure what she was expecting really, but it doesn't matter. For now she just holds her friend, lets her sob into the shoulder of her vault suit, rubs her back and doesn't ask any questions.

Finally Catherine lifts her face out of Amata's shoulder, sniffles, and says, "Let me get you something to drink."

 

Amata pops the cap off an ice-cold Nuka-Cola while Catherine splashes some water from a bottle onto a cloth and wipes her face. "Sorry about that." She smiles, and though her eyes are still tired, there's warmth in them. "I just... never expected... I mean, how are you _here?_ How did you get out?"

Amata takes a deep breath. "Long story."

Catherine meets her eyes with a sober nod. "I got lots of time."

 

It's amazing to have time.

Time there's nothing to be done, no tasks pressing on her, no one knocking on the door.

Just Catherine, and a story to tell her.

So Amata tells her.

They settle into the worn orange chairs (not so different from the ones down in the vault, just shabbier), and drink their Nukas, and Amata tells her about it. The rebellion, Butch, her father, everything.

"Oh, Amata." Catherine sets aside her empty bottle, pulls her chair closer, and gathers Amata's hands in her own. "Amata, I'm so sorry. I'm _so_ sorry."

Amata squeezes back. Her skin feels dry, but warm. Those familiar fingers intertwining with her own. "It's not your fault, okay, _none_ of it. It was..." She doesn't know how to finish, what to say to tie it all together, so she finally adds, "It just was." After a moment, she asks,

"Did you ever find your dad?"

Catherine swallows.

"My dad... my dad died." Catherine's fingers tremble. "He came out to finish an old project... a water purifier. Large scale. Enough to purify the whole tidal basin, provide clean water for everyone in DC and the surroundings, but then..." She shakes her head. "It was taken over by the Enclave, this group of pre-war... soldiers, I don't know, they say they're the American government, I don't really know who they are... Dad died trying to defend the purifier." Her voice goes dull when she adds, "We lost it anyway."

"Catherine." Amata says hoarsely, squeezing her friend's hands tighter. " _Catherine_."

In their separate chairs, she can't throw her arms around Catherine the way she wants to and Catherine seems to feel it too, because she takes a deep breath, and stands, and says, "Let's go upstairs."

 

They curl up on Catherine's bed. It's just a rusty metal cot with bent springs and a very old mattress, but she's covered it with some blankets and tried to make it look nice. Catherine offers Amata a blanket, and without a word Amata wraps it around both of them and Catherine moves closer and they snuggled against each other, just like they used to do on the couch in Catherine's apartment when her dad was working late.

Amata can't even remember how long it's been since she was this close to another person, _really_ close and warm and... a lump swells in her throat and she hooks her fingers around Catherine's hip to keep her close.

_Please don't ever go away again._

Catherine reaches for something atop the filing cabinet beside her bed, then wiggles back into place and leans against Amata. It's her Pip-Boy. Amata hadn't even registered that she wasn't wearing it. She locks it back onto her arm. "Can I show you something?"

"Of course."

Catherine twists the knob, pulling up an audiolog that begins to play.

It's her dad's voice.

_Well, here we are again. Project Purity and me. It's been close to twenty years since my last entry. Since I left all of this behind to make a life for my daughter. We spent all that time in Vault 101, tucked away from the rest of the world. It wasn't perfect, but it was safe, and that's all I could have hoped for. Now, my daughter is a grown woman. Beautiful, intelligent, confident. Just like her mother. And as hard as it was to admit it, she doesn't need her daddy anymore._

Catherine's eyes are tearing up.

Amata wraps her arms around her friend, tucking Catherine's head against her shoulder, and feeling Catherine's arms snake around her waist.

She doesn't count the minutes or hours as they listen to log after log, and talk about everything. Everything that's happened since they've been apart.

The Pip-Boy clock is just a number, demanding nothing.

Catherine is _here_ , solid and real and alive beside her, arms twined around her.

They talk, share their stories and cry into each other's arms until sheer exhaustion overtakes them and they curl against each other and fall silent. Catherine's eyes close as she rests her head on Amata's shoulder, and Amata can't help staring at her for a long minute or two, following every contour of her cheek and her jaw and her warm freckled brown skin. She combs her fingers softly through Catherine's hair, which is coming loose from its knot, and brushes a stray curl from her forehead. Catherine's lips curve into a faint smile, and her hand squeezes Amata's hip gently.

Then her eyes flutter open, lips part slightly as if to say something, but then she doesn't. Amata almost says something herself, something meaningless like _Hey_ but the way Catherine looks at her stops her, catches her words in her throat.

So Amata kisses her instead.

 

So this is what they talk about.

Nothing like whispered stories of reactor rooms and maintenance closets. Nothing like snickers of stolen kisses in the back of the room on movie nights. Nothing like awkward slow dances in the Atrium with pin curls and vault suits and stepping on each other's toes.

Just the warmth of being in each other's arms, and the softness of Catherine's lips, the bump of noses, the catch of breath when they both pull back.

Amata's eyes open, meeting Catherine's.

"I missed you _so much_ ," Catherine whispers.

Amata swallows, buries her fingers in Catherine's thick hair. Thought she was all cried out but somehow her eyes are filling with fresh tears. "I missed you too. Every day."

She pulls Catherine closer, and Catherine tucks her head against her shoulder and there's more Amata wants to say, something like _You don't have to leave without me this time_ , but from the way Catherine clings to her, she's not going anywhere anytime soon anyway.

 

\--NOTES-----------  
Journal Entry

Best thing I ever did, leaving.  
\------------------

 

It's strange how quickly the Megaton house feels like home.

Oh, it's still strange to see sunlight searing through the chinks of the wall, still strange to feel the cling of wasteland dust in the air, the layer of grit over everything, the rust flaking off the walls.

They eat at the Brass Lantern some days, when Catherine feels like going out. The first time they walk down the steps into town, side by side, people stare, move out of their way. It's been weeks since any of them have seen Catherine. She looks up as she passes them, smiles shyly, but doesn't say much.

They sit at the counter, the two Vault kids, both of them clad in t-shirts and dusty fatigues, clothes Amata's still getting used to—the blue and yellow Vault suits make you stand out, and she's enough of an outsider already. People stare at her even more than they stare at Catherine.

But they're home here, all the same. Jenny smiles when they sit down, brings them hot bowls of noodles and ice-cold Nuka-Colas. When they go up to Craterside for supplies, Moira practically bounces, gushing about how good it is to see Catherine up and about again.

Catherine smiles. A genuine smile, and Amata can see she and Moira are friends, and she feels suddenly the months they've been apart—all that time Catherine was out here living, meeting people, doing things, having a whole life without her. Just like she had one without Catherine.

And it feels strange.

But Catherine's hand is in hers, and Moira greets her too. "Oh hey! You must be Catherine's friend! She told me so much about you! Found your way out too, huh?"

And Amata smiles, too.

"Yeah. I did."

 

Everybody knows Catherine. Everybody. Moira, Jenny, Sheriff Simms, Confessor Cromwell, Manya. Even the merchants who come to trade at the gate. So far Amata has met two of them, a man named Crow who sells armor, and a chem dealer who calls himself Doc Hoff. "Wait until you meet Wolfgang," Catherine says excitedly. "He's a good guy. He's hilarious. You'll like him."

 

Catherine's not ready to leave Megaton yet. Not ready to go back to the Brotherhood, back to the Project and the GECK and the fight against the Enclave. It's all just too much right now. She will, she says. She'll finish it. Her dad would want that.

She just needs some time.

So they sit on the deck outside the house, they eat snack cakes and iguana bits on sticks and talk about other things, and Catherine brightens, a little, day by day.

One day, soon, they'll go.

For now, it's enough to be right here.


End file.
